You Sent Me to Retire, So Why Did I Bring Out a Mecha?

In an age when young people’s nerves are as fragile as glass and only veterans can endure the agony of piloting mechs, 78-year-old Shen Feng lives in Nursing Home No. 99. He has severe Parkinson’s disease and needs an exoskeleton just to eat. His own granddaughter dismisses him as “a relic of the times.”

Then a beast tide breaks through the absolute defense line, and humanity’s elite forces collapse across the board.

In the despairing downpour, the first-generation mech Silent Thunder, discarded in a scrap heap, suddenly powers up.

Shen Feng links his nerves to the machine. His hands, usually shaking violently, reach a strange “static equilibrium” through high-frequency controls.

With no AI assistance or remote targeting, he wields nothing but a rusty high-frequency vibrating titanium blade and massacres the S-rank beast tide in three seconds.

When the cockpit opens, everyone comes to greet a hero, only to find a dying old man, incontinent and utterly spent.

He coughs violently, but what he spits out isn’t blood. It’s a strange, fluorescent blue liquid.

The droplets hit the floor, then writhe like living things as they crawl back into the depths of the mech

“Easy, old friend…” The old man strokes the scorching control panel, madness flashing in his eyes, enough to make the gods tremble.

“Our funeral will have to wait a little longer.”